


Boys On Film

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Porn, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Camboy Benny, Camboy Dean, Demisexual Castiel, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 03:59:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4124848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But maybe that’s what it is—maybe Castiel’s finally realized something Dean is too chicken to admit, despite the fact he’s been jerking off to the idea of Castiel fucking him for the past few weeks. The idea warms him as much as it pains him to think about, his friend not being able to talk to him about something like that. That has to be it—it’s the only explanation. Castiel <i>likes</i> him.</p><p>“Or maybe he knows you do cam shows.”</p><p>Dean chokes on his burger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boys On Film

**Author's Note:**

  * For [relucant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/relucant/gifts).



Benny’s the one that suggests it—Dean has known what his ‘sidejob’ is for a while now, hooking up with guys on camera and making a pretty penny doing it. There’s only so much they can do between pulling student loans to pay for tuition, even after applying to scholarship after scholarship. Naturally, sex sells—Dean doesn't know why he didn't think of it sooner. But the idea of hooking up a camera in his dorm room and jerking himself off to a crowd of faceless names isn’t entirely appealing, until Benny tells him just _how much_ he could be banking every session. Depending on how popular he gets and how many people tune in, _and_ if people purchase private sessions, he could actually make more cash than his job at the student center even dreamed of.

But that’s not enough to convince him. He’s not _pretty_ enough, at least to him. All of the other guys he sees on this website, they’re either stupidly ripped or complete twinks. Some play with toys, others have partners. Some go solo and make a _killing_. And no matter how many people tell him how attractive he is, how _gorgeous_ his freckles are or how tight his ass is, he doesn’t feel that he’s special.

“Are you kidding?” Benny tells him one afternoon while they’re waiting between classes, sitting in a grassy section of the quad; Dean’s at his side halfheartedly eating a sandwich, flicking an ant that crawls across his shoe and hoping it lands somewhere where someone won’t step on it. “You’re _totally_ the type. Look at you.” Benny waves a finger to Dean’s shirt, too tight against his frame; a woman whistles at his back, waving when he turns. He really needs to buy new clothes. “Great pair’a bowlegs a guy can really get between, abs I can bounce a quarter offa, and your ass—hell, I saw it last night and _I’d_ still pay to see it again.”

Dean rolls his eyes and pops the last of his lunch in his mouth, pointing a finger at Benny’s face. “’N I swear if anyone sees where you _slapped_ it—.”

Benny raises his hands with a laugh, looking all the bit unashamed. “My bad, brother.”

“Lucky no one asked why I had a giant _hickey_ last week,” Dean scoffs; Benny pushes his shoulder, knocking him off balance enough to send him into the grass. He doesn't mind—at least the ground is cool, compared to the blazing sun above. Why aren’t they inside, again? “So—you really think it’s safe?”

“Don’t see why not.” Benny shrugs, crossing his ankles. “Don’t even gotta use your real name or where you’re at, just gotta show that pretty lil’ face o’ yours and get off for the camera. Y’get really good, ‘n people’ll send you stuff to play with.”

He flushes red in the spring sun, Benny laughing at his embarrassment. “Dude, it’s not that fu—.”

“C’mon, it’s _kinda_ funny.” Benny waves a hand at him, noncommittal. “Y’don’t gotta if y’don’t wanna, but an English major? No offense, but even if your whole baseball thing don’t play out, you’re gonna need somethin’ to pay off the state.”

It’s true, as much as he doesn't want to admit it. He would be a liar to admit that the idea isn’t appealing, taking his clothes off for complete strangers and getting paid to fuck himself senseless. Benny already does that when they’re drunk or horny enough, and that's for free. Doing it for the camera? Complete game changer.

Benny walks him through potential stage names—Lawrence Smith, they decide; Dean’s middle name and where he was born—and takes fairly tasteful photos of him for the website listing, all with him in the pink lace he still flushes to admit he bought online; but they feel good on his cock, great when someone pins him down and eats him out, even _better_ when he gets fucked in them, dildos and strap ons and cocks more than enough to have him howling into the mattress and biting whatever he can. He’s an equal opportunist lay—as long as they get off on it too, he’s happy.

His first live session isn’t scheduled until that Friday while he waits for the listing to be finalized and his bank account synced; he spends the next three days mentally preparing during and between classes, his best friend staring at him like he’s grown a second head while they’re sitting next to each other in the auditorium, waiting for their Criminology professor to walk in. “What’s got you so flustered?” Castiel asks him, patting his knee in that totally platonic way he does, black nail resting there a second too long.

Today, Dean ignores the way he squeezes just a bit, ignores the way cobalt eyes watch him in worry, like he’s actually scared something’s wrong with him. Something is—Dean’s nervous. He can’t sleep well, his skin gets clammy when he thinks about what he’ll be doing, and he can’t even tell Castiel Novak about it. His childhood best friend, the guy he’s already spent most of his life with, kissed on ‘accident’ on more than one occasion, and now sleeps next to in opposite beds in the same dorm room. Dressed in more black and leather than humanly possible and decked out with piercings from his ears to his lips and blue hair spiked two inches to the sky, he’s a complete one-eighty from their public school days, but Dean wouldn't have it any other way.

Dean’s only taking this class as an elective; they normally make it a point to take at _least_ one class together each semester, and this was one Castiel needed and the only one that fit into Dean’s class schedule. He’s running low on things to take, anyway—one more semester after this, and he’s home free.

“I think I’ve done something dumb,” Dean blurts out, and Castiel gives him a look, nudging his shoulder. _You can tell me_ , the gesture says—he doesn't know if he can. Doesn't think Castiel will understand. As far as he knows, Castiel didn't even _watch_ porn, let alone know about what kind of sex site Benny’s got him wrapped up in. If anything, he’d just freak his friend out more than he already does when he forgets to put a sock on the door. Just because Castiel is used to it doesn't mean he likes to _hear_ about it.

Unless he does and Dean’s just blind when it comes to him. Castiel, wide-eyed and innocent to-be lawyer, a fan of pornography? _Right_.

“Don’t you always, though?” Castiel asks while rummaging through his bag for his textbook, keeping his eyes on Dean. “Did you sleep with Lisa again?”

Dean’s mind blanks— _Lisa_. Yes, this is his out. He totally slept with Lisa and didn't get himself wrapped up in an online live sex ring. He nods despite his shame and blabs, “Yeah, yeah, totally. That’s totally it,” and leaves it at that. Castiel gives him a curious glance and opens his mouth to speak just as their professor enters the cavernous room, clapping for the massive group of two hundred to sit down and shut up.

After that, the rest of his Thursday is a blur. He meets Castiel for dinner in the student center before Castiel has to go to his night class—seriously, who signs up for seminars at eight in the evening all week _willingly_?—and heads to Benny’s dorm room. He’s already there when Dean arrives, shirtless and wearing that ever-present grin at the door. “Thought you’d chicken out,” he sneers, and Dean rolls his eyes and pushes past, throwing himself on Benny’s bed.

“Lucky for you, I’m in debt up to my eyeballs and I’m _fucked_ if I don’t get drafted.” He rolls over onto his back, Benny sitting next to him and pulling his laptop off the other bed. Aaron must be out tonight, Dean guesses. “What’d you want me to come over here for, anyway?”

“Gotta fill out your listing,” Benny says, half paying attention; he’s scrolling through his bookmarks until he finds an embarrassing-sounding website name, bringing up Dean’s profile. Benny already got him cleared to start performing earlier in the afternoon; all he needs is to upload whatever picture he’s taken and finish his profile. The thought of doing it on his own makes Dean’s face flush bright red, averting his eyes to whatever Benny’s gotten up to. “See, I’ve got most’a your details down already, they just need t’know what your preferences are.”

Dean sits up and watches Benny fiddle around on his Macbook, scrolling down through the multitude of options; his cock dares to stir in his jeans, a mortifying concept if it were anyone else in the room. “Dude, you know how much I _weigh_?”

Benny feigns annoyance and bumps their shoulders, a big hand clapping Dean’s thigh. “I got it off your driver’s license. Y’know, those things exist for a reason, not just sittin’ around in your wallet.”

“Hey, I use it!” His glare is ignored, Benny laughing in reply. Truth is, he hasn’t even bothered looking at it in weeks—staying on campus and his family living halfway across the country doesn't leave him many options for traveling on his own, and he uses his university ID if he needs anything on campus.

He opts to ignore his friend until Benny speaks again, clearly amused about something. “You’re cut, right?”

Oh dear _God_. Dean covers his face with his hands, falling back into a pillow with a thud. “They seriously gotta know _that_?”

“Some people like it more than others,” Benny adds. It makes sense when Dean thinks about it; he just never thought about it being a _preference_ , though. “How big would you say your cock is?”

“Oh my _God_.” Dean rolls back onto his stomach, covering his head with a pillow to drown out his agony. “Are you _seriously_ asking me that? You’ve seen it _before_ , just… use your imagination or somethin’! I don’t _know_.”

“You’re never gonna make it if y’keep bein’ this shy, Chief,” Benny chuckles. Dean reaches over to slap him, ending up grabbing a fistful of his hair before giving up. It’s no use, anyway; Benny’s bigger than him, stronger. Part of the reason why he tumbled into bed with him in the first place; he likes the idea of being held down and fucked, loves the feeling of his partner pinning him from behind and never giving him the chance to breathe, telling him to _take it_. It’s the only time where he can speak his mind and say what he truly wants, rather than the face he shows his friends, that he shows Castiel. Because Castiel wouldn't understand this. Somehow, it always works back around to him.

“I’m just… nervous,” he admits; Benny runs a hand down his spine and lets it rest at the small of his back, warm through his shirt. “Not really used to bein’ on camera for anything, and this is…”

“You don’t gotta if you don’t wanna.” But Benny’s already set up his account—he can’t back out, can he? Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Benny watching him, brow furrowed in fresh concern. “I only suggested it ‘cause I didn’t think you’d go through with it. Sounded right up your alley, though.”

It is—it _so_ is. He’s just having to come to grips with the idea that he’ll be flaunting the most intimate part of himself to a group of strangers. But the _money_. “It just… sounds so _whorey_ when I think about it.”

Benny stops at that, strong fingers putting pressure on the base of his spine, almost digging in. “You’re not a whore as much as I am, Dean,” he says, turning back to the laptop and setting it between his knees. “This ‘s _your_ body, and you can do what you want to with it. Y’ain’t a slut for wantin’ sex or any of it. Y’understand?”

He nods; his face burns from the shame of it, of admitting he wants something different. Wants someone to tell them he’s perfect, that he looks _beautiful_ , whether they mean it or not. “Fine,” he murmurs, uncovering his head and sitting up, eyeing the laptop and the blank spaces on the browser. He’s probably red all the way down to his chest now; whether Benny notices or not, he doesn’t care. “What does it need now?”

Benny smiles, his teeth showing in his glee. “ _That’s_ my boy.” Dean closes his eyes when Benny pulls him closer, sneaking in a quick kiss, a hand practically grabbing his ass. “Need to know ‘bout your show. Y’know, what you’re into, what you’ll do, all that stuff.”

He scratches the back of his head—what _does_ he want? He spent most of last night thinking about it, illicit fantasies that left him hard under his sheets with Castiel asleep across the room while he jerked off to them, the thought of being _ordered around_ by someone he didn't know. “Ass play,” he admits, choking down his shame. He can do this. “And toys. Massagers, vibes… I also got those stockings and garters Rhonda got me for my birthday.”

Benny full on _laughs_ , shaking the bed with it. “Now _that_ , you didn't tell me.”

“Yeah, well, I _do_.” He watches Benny type it into the box before continuing, “Nipple play, fingering… I can suck myself off.” His friend snorts at his side, typing out in big letters ‘SELF SUCKER.’ “And uh… being dominated.”

The words come out in a whisper; Benny gives him a look before finalizing that description, moving to the next. “Last thing. Turn ons?”

 _That’s_ a long list. “…Spanking.” His face flushes hotter, neck stained bright red the longer he goes on. Between his legs, his sweatpants strain against the loose fabric, Benny taking a moment to reach over and cup him, grip firm, stroking loose trails over his cock. “Soft skin,” he pants, “bein’ held down—oh _fuck_ , _Benny_ —.”

“Two more,” Benny says, voice gravel; he lets go just briefly to slip his fingers underneath Dean’s waistband, taking him in hand and leaving Dean fucking up into his fist.

“Bein’ pushed around,” he bites out, and closes his eyes at the next three words. “…And being watched.”

Benny makes an approving noise and moves to kiss him, Dean gasping up into his mouth and clutching his shoulders tight, grinding their hips together with intent. Benny holds him down like he means it, dark eyes brooding, searching for consent. And with a nod, Benny strips him of his shirt and turns him over, Dean clutching the sheets for dear life.

-+-+-+-+-+-

He has a number of viewers when he logs on the following night, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and lace panties covering his cock, already half hard from some of the comments he’s been getting. He talks for a while, answers some of what they ask— _Where’d you get such pretty lips_? _You gonna show us the goods, big boy_?—and ignores some of the lewder comments, all left by people with screen names he didn't think were even remotely possible.

It’s when the credits start rolling in that things get interesting. Someone pays him fifty to take his shirt off, another hundred if he takes his cock out for them. He knows this dance, knows what people get off on; he did the same for Rhonda last year after they first met, grinding down on her lap while she told him _exactly_ how she wanted him. Now, in the privacy of his own room and Castiel out of sight for at least two hours, he strips off his shirt in the best tease he can, exposing his torso inch by inch, the mass of tattooed wings under his pecs with feathers trailing down to his hips, until he’s wearing nothing but the straining lace around his waist.

And even then, that doesn't last for another few minutes. He’s apparently the talk of the night crowd, garnering admiration from most and lust from the rest, wanting nothing more than to see him come all over his fist. He does a few private group chats when someone credits him high enough, showing off just what’s underneath the panties and toying around with one of his smaller dildos, bringing himself to the brink before tugging the lace back on and going public again, all to a pleasantly frustrated audience’s approval.

He lets the show go on for an hour before the persistent ache in his balls is almost too much to bear, and calls the highest donator in for a private chat—someone by the name of Lincoln69, one of the first people to tune in when he went live, always leaving well thought out and _entirely_ too arousing messages. Half of the others couldn't even spell. At least it’s him instead of the guy who kept saying he had nice toes. Which, _weird_.

He’s still wearing the panties when he closes the chat to everyone except the stranger, lying on his side with his cock still tenting the fabric, lazily palming his erection. The first message doesn’t come for another few seconds, but the words on the screen leave his heart skipping a beat.

> _You’ve been a good boy tonight, haven’t you_?

 _God_ , that shouldn't be such a turn on. Dean nods with a parted mouth and removes his hand, shifting up to sit with his feet tucked under his ass and knees spread outwards, revealing his pretty bulge and just how soaked he is, precum staining the front and lube still wet between his cheeks. His hole flutters around nothing, body perched on edge, waiting for the next instruction.

This—he knows what this is. No one would say that to him if they didn't mean the intent behind it. He nods with more conviction now, grounding out a “Yes, sir” and earning a typed ‘ _Good’_ in the box.

> _Take your cock out and stroke it for me, get yourself nice and wet_

He can do that. With a steady hand, Dean tugs the waistband of his panties down and lets them rest beneath his balls, palming his cock in long strokes and gathering precum at the tip, all while staving off the incessant need to come right _there_ before anything has even started. His eyes are glued to the chat window, pointedly ignoring the light from his webcam and the small box where his feed sits; he doesn't want to see himself doing this, but his chest warms at the thought, knowing someone else is watching him, getting off on just the sight of him touching himself. He fingers the base of his cock with a whine; he can’t come. Not yet.

> _You should take them off. You look much better when I can see all of you_

Dean chews his lip and slides the fabric past his hips, tugging them down his thighs until he can pull his ankles free, leaving him exposed in the middle of his bed, the curtains drawn on the window between the beds, Castiel’s left tidy while his own is rumpled and scattered with various toys, many he already used on himself at request. The viewer must notice him staring at one of them, because the next comment has him sucking in a breath.

_> Fuck yourself on the blue one_  
_ >You should see yourself. I’d fuck you so hard if I were there_  
_ >My dick so hard in your ass_

He reels at the thought, not even bothering to hold back his gasp; it shouldn’t be this hot. His cock leaps in his grip, eager to move on, to feel something again; Dean’s inclined to agree with it, for once. He has permission, anyway; whether he can come or not is a different matter. He takes his time opening himself up again, putting on a show of it—he’s getting paid for this, five bucks a minute; he doesn't know if the stranger will stick around for that long, either—and moans when he finally slides the head of the dildo in while he faces the camera, his cock leaking into the sheets. It’s thick, bigger than most of his others by an inch and wider at the base, curved at the tip, rubbing against his prostate with every pass.

The user encourages him on as he starts to fuck back onto the toy, one hand holding it in place while the other clutches the sheets near the end of the bed. On the screen, he watches the small window of himself in the corner of the browser; in a perverse way, he looks good, and he _knows_ it. Flushed red from his ears to his chest, sweat beading at his hairline—and he can’t stop moaning either, hyperaware of the noise in his ears, sounding oddly reminiscent of a name.

The name he longs to say, but can’t—not here, not ever. But that doesn't stop him from spinning the fantasy in his head, imagining hands on his hips, painted nails pulling him back onto his hips in a stuttering rhythm. Castiel would be warmer than the plastic he’s fucking himself on, moaning senseless words and earning praise with every shift of his hips, cock leaking thick strands now. He’d mouth at Dean’s neck and bite down when he got closer, letting his piercings slide over the sweat-drenched skin at his nape; he can almost hear the growl in his ear, the rough gravel of his voice whispering there, jerking him back harder now, Dean’s toes curling in the sheets from the feel of him, stretching him full, leaving him gasping into nothing.

He comes with Castiel’s name on his lips, just barely a breath as he stripes his fist and the sheets in thick spurts, hole clenching around the widest part of the dildo as he rides out his orgasm, fist languidly working to strip the last few drops from his cock, now softening in his hand. There’s a handful of messages he didn't read waiting for him when he comes back to himself, fighting a wince when he pulls the toy from his ass and sets it aside, biting back the shame burning in his gut at the knowledge that he just _jerked off_ to the fantasy of his _best friend_.

_> You’re beautiful, you know that?_  
_> Look at me when you come_  
_> You’re so fucking wet, Lawrie_  
_> Wanna make you come on my cock, fucking hot_  
_> Wish you could see how hard I am_

Lincoln69 signs off shortly after Dean waves goodbye, and he shuts off the camera for the night, leaving him alone in his room with the feeling of anticipation and regret forming a rock in his chest, unease creeping through his bones. _How does Benny do this every day_? he wonders, shutting his laptop and crawling off the bed to set it back on the desk, ignoring the way lube feels drying on his skin or the pleasant ache spreading through him. He needs to shower soon before he forgets, before Castiel gets back from his class in twenty minutes.

One thought crosses his mind once everything’s tidied away and he’s freshly showered and sprawled out on his bed with a textbook in hand—who the _hell_ knows his nickname is Lawrie?

-+-+-+-+-+-

Despite his reservations and the ever-gnawing fear that someone will find out just what he’s doing, it all runs smoothly after that. The nights when Dean’s not at practice and Castiel is at one class or the other, Dean logs online and chats with his rapidly growing fanbase, drawing in a good hundred dollars minimum each night, even more if someone pays for a private chat. He’s starting to see the appeal if he thinks about it long enough. He never has to leave his dorm or dress a certain way to get approval, and if he keeps getting paid like he does, he’ll have at least enough to pay off some of the debt he’s incurred. It’s a fantastic setup, absolutely perfect.

Until Castiel stops talking to him. Hell, he even stops _looking_ at Dean for a while, eyes almost to the floor, hands curling into tight fists in his lap like he’s trying not touch anything. For all of Dean’s life, Castiel has always been the most sensual person Dean’s ever known—even his former girlfriends weren’t as touchy feely as he is, always with his hand on him in some way, the press of his rings always heavy over his shirt, fingers clenching into the fabric to pull him closer until they’re practically attached at the hip. He’s a deterrent, most of the time—a guy with that many piercings and a sky-blue mohawk hanging around with some jock from the baseball team? Dean feels powerful at his side, knowing all eyes are on the juxtaposition of it.

But now, Castiel won’t even acknowledge that he’s there, at least for the first two weeks after he started his new side job. The first day, he bailed out of dinner, claiming he had a ‘headache’—an automatic lie, since Aaron texted him later saying he saw Castiel head into class, leaving him with a bed glaringly void of one blue-headed punk. He started to come around though, at least Dean _thought_ he did—he would give him passing glances and answer simple questions, but never engaged him any further in conversation than he had to. Even when Dean asked about it, Castiel blanched and stated he had somewhere to be.

Where the _fuck_ else was he supposed to be? They’re in Kansas, not New York. He didn’t have a plane to catch, did he?

Had Dean done something wrong? As far as he can remember, he never once provoked Castiel or did anything to lead him on. They’re just friends—creepily close friends, but friends nonetheless. If Castiel had any interest in him, Dean would have known it by now. But maybe that’s what it is—maybe Castiel’s finally realized something Dean is too chicken to admit, despite the fact he’s been jerking off to the idea of Castiel fucking him for the past few weeks. The idea warms him as much as it pains him to think about, his friend not being able to talk to him about something like that. That has to be it—it’s the only explanation. Castiel _likes_ him.

“Or maybe he knows you do cam shows.”

Dean chokes on his burger. They’re at the campus café, Charlie typing away at a paper on her laptop while Dean struggles to clear his windpipe, the redhead doing nothing to ease his suffering. “How the _fuck_ do you know that?” he growls, chugging water from the bottle at his side. “I mean—I didn’t tell—.”

“Oh re _lax_ , Deano,” Charlie says with an eye roll, reaching across to pat his hand. “You _know_ there’s a chick section on that site too, right? You’re like, one of the highest ranked dudes _on_ there, I think some people’re gonna know.” Dean covers his face with his hands while she pauses, humming to herself. “Though, I didn’t know you had a birthmark on your—.”

“ _Thanks_ , Charlie, for that.” Dean sighs and lowers his hands, looking down at his half-eaten burger with disinterest. Give it five minutes. “Just… He’s not—He’s ace, right? I mean, he’s never really been interested in sex or dating, so even if he knew, why would he—.”

“There’re more types of asexuality than just being turned off by sex, y’know.” Charlie looks up from her screen and waves at a girl from halfway across the room, turning her attention back to Dean. “He’s seriously never talked to you about this?”

“Not really,” Dean admits. Castiel came to him about a lot of things, but never about sexuality. Never about how he _felt_ about something or someone. “The only reason I _know_ he is is ‘cause I read one of his papers he left out on his bed, somethin’ ‘bout the validity of outlier sexualities and how asexuality is valid because he _is_ ace.” He pinches his brow and pokes at his lunch, fighting off the ache in his chest. “He knows I’m bi, right? He coulda just _said_ something—.”

“Maybe he doesn't think you’ll understand?” Charlie sits back with her arms across her chest, propping her boots up in the spare chair beside them. “Castiel is… complex, Dean. You may’ve known him your entire life, but he’s got this whole other side of him that even _you_ don’t know about.” Dean snorts at the accusation, lips pursed together and eyes narrowed. “And if he’s browsing _cam_ sites to find you? _That’s_ what you need to talk about.”

He doesn't want to—but that’s what he ends up doing. Despite everything, Castiel still sits next to him in their one class together, but rarely says a word besides an occasionally scribbled message on the edge of Dean’s notebook. Today, Dean starts out slow.

_> you ok?_

Castiel glances at him briefly and _ignores_ him, at least until their professor stops looking at their section of the class and redirects her lecture to another area. He takes Dean’s pencil and taps a few times before setting graphite to paper.

_> I’m fine._

_> you’re lying_

Castiel gives him a look, the intensity of it probably startling the poor girl that sits at Dean’s right; she drops her textbook in a flurry, catching it before it hits the ground or alerts anyone else. Dean continues, darting between the paper and their professor.

_> you haven’t talked to me in almost three weeks_

_> I’ve been busy with exams, you’ve seen me._

_> exams don’t mean you can’t say **hi** to me._

_> They do when you’re being too distracting._

Oh, so _that’s_ how it is. He’s too _distracting_. He doesn't have time to argue about this, not when there’s five minutes left and they’re writing enthusiastic notes to each other on a sheet of fucking _paper_. Dean’s never been accused to being distracting before or anything of the sort—why start now? Unless, Castiel actually _does_ know and he’s just not letting on. With his heart in his throat, he writes out his last question and hands off the pencil.

> _do you know Lincoln69?_

_> **FUCK YOU**_

-+-+-+-+-+-

Castiel doesn't speak to him for another week and barely shows his face in their dorm unless it’s to sleep, much to Dean’s disappointment. Even the thought of camming isn’t appealing to him as long as he knows Castiel isn’t planning to watch; he wouldn't be showing off to his friend anymore, just an audience of faceless names. Like it should’ve been in the first place—he regrets it entirely. Regrets he ever took Benny up on the offer, regrets that he’s actually getting paid for this.

And for what? To have Castiel stop speaking to him? How had he even found out, anyway? Unless he was bored out of his skull or researching for a class, he shouldn't have known in the first place. And where did he get _off_ , anyway, perving on him? Castiel is his longest—and one of his only—friends; he’s supposed to be able to come to Dean, to actually tell him what’s bothering him. He always has in the past. But this is different—this is _big_. Maybe there’s a reason they never broached the subject of sexuality around each other.

Maybe Castiel has always felt this way and just never let him in on the secret. Hell of a way to discover it, Dean grouses. Stumble into your best friend getting his rocks off online and _boss him around_ like it’s no big deal. _Totally a big deal_.

He can’t go on like this—not while he knows there’s something unsaid between them going on. Not as long as he can help it.

He catches Castiel sneaking in at midnight on a Friday, Castiel probably thinking Dean’s asleep like always. He kept the light off for that purpose—conceal the fact that he’s wearing panties and nothing else until the switch is flipped on and Castiel is left gawking at Dean stretched out across _his_ bed, hands behind his head and ankles crossed over the other. He’s met with an angry stare and the drop of a book bag, Castiel slamming the door behind him and clenching his fists at his sides.

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?” Dean starts off, unperturbed. Castiel doesn't answer him immediately, opting to stand by the door, chewing the spike of one of his spider bites, thumbs now tucked into two of the holes in his jeans. Dean takes the opportunity to rise up on the made sheets and knee his way over to the edge of the bed, reaching out to pull Castiel forward by his waistband. There’s no anger in Dean’s eyes, whatever emotions held close to the surface being reined back temporarily. He has every right to be miffed; Castiel took off without so much as a warning or reason. This isn’t _him_.

Castiel huffs a rough sigh and glares down at him. Dean can feel the tension in his hip, feel the strain of muscle there, knows that Castiel is trying to hold back. Because if he had his way, Dean knows he’d already be on his back in the sheets by now. But Castiel’s too wound up for that; instead, he takes one of Dean’s wrists and jerks his hand away, fingers digging into tanned skin with intent. “You weren’t supposed to be there,” Castiel mumbles, words barely a whisper.

But Dean hears him all the same. “You weren’t supposed to be _looking_ ,” he hisses back, grips Castiel’s wrist just as tight.

“You weren’t supposed to _be there_.” And this time, he actually _does_ find himself on his back; Castiel bowls him over and pins him down by his wrists, legs straddling his hips and face inches from his own, lips curled into a snarl. “I was researching for a _paper_ , Dean. I wasn't there for my own amusement, I wasn't… Do you know what it’s _like_ , to see someone you know, someone you _care_ for… showing off like that? They don’t want you like I do, Dean.” His heart races at the confession, at the proximity of Castiel’s lips to his own. It’s not supposed to be like this; they’re supposed to talk about it like normal people, maybe over dinner or casual conversation. Not while he’s in his underwear and his friend is trying to read him the riot act.

“You should’ve said something,” Dean breathes; Castiel closes his eyes, forehead thumping into his shoulder. He can’t move, not yet; not while Castiel still has a death grip on his limbs and a voice that could shatter glass.

“I shouldn't _have to_.” Castiel rears up again, his eyes even harsher now, narrowed to slits. “I thought you always _knew_ how I felt. Yet, you fling yourself at the next willing body and never spare me a second’s thought—.”

“I didn’t think you _wanted_ it.” Castiel’s eyes snap open; Dean turns his head, looking anywhere but his friend. “Didn't—Didn’t think you wanted _me_.”

Castiel lets him go after a beat, pulling up enough so he can sit back on his haunches; Dean shifts up and leans on his elbows, ignoring the proximity of their bodies and the way Castiel looks at him, eyes gone soft, forlorn. “I do,” he says, and Dean lets out a breath. “I’ve… You have to understand. I don't… not for anyone else. I don’t feel the way you do about—.”

“Cas.” Dean reaches up to stroke Castiel’s cheek, thumbing under his eye and feeling his jaw clench, the insecurity lying beneath. “I _know_.”

Castiel stares for a brief second, eyes going soft around the edges. “…You read my paper, didn’t you.” It’s more of an accusation than anything; at least he’s gentle about it, his tone never scolding.

Dean nods. “You left it out on your bed, dude, how I was _not_ supposed to?” He can practically hear Castiel thinking ‘ _You could have done anything else_ ,’ contempt radiating off him in waves. “Look, I get you, Cas, really. And I’m… _sorry_ if I freaked you out, but this?” He gestures to the closed laptop on the desk between their beds and the temporarily-out-of-sight box of toys in the dresser, feeling his face heat from the memory. “I’m not… whoring myself out or anything. I’m gonna pay off loans with it after graduation.” He flops back into the sheets, grunting with the additional weight to his thighs. “Dude, why’re you sitting on me—.”

“Can I quote you?” _What_? Dean jerks his head up and spots the look on Castiel’s face, the question hanging in the air between them.

Dean knows what this is about—he should have figured it out in the beginning. Because the only reason Castiel would be doing _anything_ related to sex is if it revolved back around to that history class he’s taking. “…You were _researching_ sex chat rooms?” He almost laughs at that—almost.

The look Castiel shoots him is anything but cheerful. “It’s _embarrassing_ , Dean,” Castiel groans, dropping his head. “And incredibly expensive. I’ve spent over two hundred dollars _talking_ to people while they’re _naked_. And you were there, and—.”

“Is that why you kept sayin’ those things to me?” He watches Castiel nod, their eyes never meeting. “’Bout wanting to bend me over and _spank_ me?”

Castiel's blush matches the tattoo on his neck, the morning glories inked there blending into the red spreading from his cheeks down his throat, beneath the collar of his shirt. “I could always ask them because they couldn't see me,” he says, absent. “I wasn’t attracted to them, I didn’t… _feel_ anything for them. But I saw you, and… You couldn’t see me. And I thought, if I told you how I felt, you would leave.” He chews his piercing again, eyes boring a hole where Dean’s hand rests. Slowly, Dean sits up, resting his fingers on the flat of Castiel’s thighs, feeling him tense and relax under the touch. “…So I let myself have you, even if it was anonymous. Even if you didn't want me back.”

He could laugh—he could blow the whole thing off and tell Castiel that it’s fine, he can quote him for whatever paper he’s writing and they can go back to their awkward lives around each other. But he can’t do that, to neither himself nor Castiel. Instead, he goes with, “You spent seventy-five dollars in the past month for something you could’ve had for free.”

Dawning crosses Castiel’s face, pierced mouth forming a small ‘o’ before he’s surging forward again, Dean’s wrists pinned to the bed above his head. _Now he means business_. “Do you mean it?” Castiel asks, uncertain; Dean nods, rolling his hips in invitation, Castiel pushing back against him with a growl. “Can I have you?”

“You’ve had me,” Dean says, and Castiel bridges the gap and kisses him, all heat and no finesse. He arches up to meet each kiss, Castiel wasting no time in delving in deeper and pressing every inch of his clothed body to Dean’s nearly-naked one, spider bites dragging against spit-slick skin, worn jeans rutting against expensive lace. _He’s hard_ is Dean’s only thought, all others wiped away with the incessantness of Castiel’s tongue against his own, licking along the roof of his mouth and the seam of his lips when he pulls back, just enough for Dean to suck his lower lip into his mouth, until it’s swollen from kisses and nips.

For someone so turned off by sex or even _kissing_ , Castiel is a master at it, reducing him to a squirming in just a few minute’s time, his cock furiously tenting the wet lace squashed between them, Castiel’s hips working a steady rhythm. He’s still wearing his _boots_ , Dean muses, head thrown back when his friend attacks his neck next, mouth sucking a dark mark along his jaw, lips trailing wetly to his collarbone. “ _Fuck_ , you been watchin’ porn, too?” he wheezes; Castiel answers him with a short nod and a groan, biting his shoulder a bit too roughly. In which case—“Dude, Cas, stop for a second.”

Castiel pulls back with a scowl, Dean taking a quick second to admire just how disheveled he looks; worn leather jacket tossed to the side in a moment’s reprieve that Dean doesn't exactly remember, his shirt rumbled and hanging off to one side, hair in disarray—he wants to run his hands through it, ruck it up even further until it's a complete mess. Blue eyes plead an unanswered question of _why_ , and Dean answers it with a quick kiss and, “Where were you watching me from?”

That time, he _does_ laugh when Castiel blushes, eyes wide and panicked. “…I was in class,” he admits, and Dean practically _loses_ it. “We don't _do_ anything in Seminar! I’m only there for attendance, and—will you stop _laughing_?”

“It’s funny!” Dean cackles. “I’m just imaginin’ what you looked like sittin’ there, tellin’ me to suck my dick.” Castiel scolds him by pinching his nipple, Dean arching up into it with a moan, panting when he doesn't stop. “Fu— _Fuck_ , _Cas_ —.”

“I intend to make good on our promises, Dean,” Castiel whispers a hot breath into his ear. He finally releases Dean’s hands and lets them roam, drawing Castiel into another kiss and worming his fingers beneath the soft fabric of his shirt, working it up over his head and tossing it to the floor without preamble. They’re on each other again in an instant, Dean more occupied with getting his friend out of his jeans while Castiel is anything but; he promptly flips Dean onto his back and blankets him, taking both his wrists in one hand and unbuttoning the fly of his pants with the other. Dean feels him there, slick, hard skin rutting between his cheeks over the lace while Castiel stutters choked sighs into his ear, their hands twining in the sheets. “Please tell me you have something.”

“If you’d stop humping me for two _seconds_ ,” Dean pants, waving a hand towards the desk. “It’s in the—in the drawer—.”

And Castiel _abandons_ him, rolling off of Dean and padding over to the desk to rummage through the drawers there, coming back with a condom and a half-empty bottle; he’ll need more soon if he keeps up like he’s been doing, even more so if Castiel wants to get in on the action. Which, _there’s_ an idea.

He’s on his back when Castiel crawls over him again, their lips pressing together sweetly in the interval, Castiel’s jeans slung low and his cock jutting proud between his legs, precum pearling at the tip. “You’re sure? About all of this?” Dean asks when they pull apart, just as Castiel’s thumbs hook into his waistband, threatening to pull his panties off.

Castiel just _looks_ at him, adamancy reflecting in his eyes, hands now still and cupping Dean’s hips. “We’ve known each other for years,” he starts, quiet. “We’ve… I’ve known I’ve had feelings for you since high school. And it’s… _always_ been you. I was convinced there was something wrong with me, because everyone I knew was in relationships and you were dating anyone you touched. But I didn’t… feel that way, about anyone, even the people I went out with, just because I _had_ to. I had to keep up appearances… And after your game senior year, when you kissed me even though you didn’t mean it… I knew it was you.”

Dean doesn't answer—instead, he reaches up to cup the back of Castiel’s neck and kisses him, long and slow, letting his reply linger on his lips. “Shoulda told me,” he murmurs between them, running his fingers over the fuzzy chestnut hair on the sides of Castiel’s head, threading them through the styled strands of his mohawk and smoothing it back, blue now standing in all directions. It’s cute— _he’s_ cute. “Think it was always you too,” he says; Castiel nods, slow. “Just… never thought you were interested, y’know? Probably shoulda asked.”

“Funny,” Castiel sighs. “I should’ve asked you, as well.”

“Well, look at us.” Dean lays back and crosses his arms behind his head, wiggling his hips to rub against Castiel’s flagging erection. “Took me jerking off online for one of us to come around.”

His heart warms at Castiel’s smile, just a small thing, barely there; it’s perfect all the same. “Dean,” he says, voice rough as gravel and dropping, both hands now digging into the bedspread on either side of his head. “I’d really like to fuck you now.”

Dean grins, flashing teeth. “Y’sure, though? You don’t gotta top if you don’t—.”

“I want to.” And that’s that.

Castiel rids him of his panties and tosses them to the side, reclaiming Dean’s lips in a less-than-teasing kiss and coaxing his legs open. He lets himself go after that, the press of Castiel’s slick fingers slipping inside more than enough to bring Dean to incoherency, his moans giving his friend all the encouragement he needs. Dean guides him where he needs to go, letting Castiel feel him out and touch where he wants, stroke his cock when he feels like it, now leaking a thin stream onto his abs, spurting fresh precum with every touch to his prostate. “’M good,” Dean whimpers into Castiel’s kiss, clenching around his fingers, three now, hissing when he pulls them free. “How d’you want me?”

“On your back.”

Dean spreads his legs without hesitation, watching Castiel tear open the condom wrapper and smooth the rubber down his cock, slicking himself with another coat of lube before he shuffles forward, jeans shoved halfway down his thighs and those _damn_ knee-high boots still laced up. It shouldn't be that hot—he shouldn't feel this close to an orgasm without being _touched_ , just from the sight.

Castiel must apparently feel the same, because in the next second Dean feels Castiel’s hands on his thighs and his cock pushing past his rim, and then he’s _inside_ , thicker than he looks and as hard as ever. It’s different this way, he figures; normally, even with Benny, his partners leave him on his front and have their way with him, never bothering to even _look_ at him if they have to. But here, he can watch Castiel as they adjust, watch as he begins to thrust, testing the waters, easing them both into it.

It’s slower than anything he’s ever felt. Castiel kisses him throughout, Dean moaning when they separate to breathe, tugging at Castiel’s hair when his cock rubs against his prostate just right, when Castiel presses close enough to rub against his own, neglected between their bellies. “So good,” he whines, voice weak; it’s better than good, better than he imagined. Because it’s Castiel he’s with—Castiel is taking care of him, holding him, kissing him. There’s a shimmer in those blue eyes, a confession neither can say—not yet, at least. At another time, maybe, when they can flesh out whatever… _this_ is. For now, Dean lets it go as long as he can, reveling in how deep he’s grinding, how he holds him tight like he never plans to let go.

Dean catches the hitch of Castiel’s breath when it all starts to feel like too much. He’s pretty sure he’s crying now, wetness streaking down his cheeks when Castiel picks up the pace, panting harsh breaths against his lips. His rhythm is breaking, and Dean moans with it, reaching between them to fist his dick, warm and wet in his grasp. “You close?” he asks, feeling Castiel nod against his neck. He wraps an arm around Castiel’s back and pulls him closer, muttering, “Come for me, babe,” into his ear, right before he feels Castiel tense and spill, hips grinding in aborted thrusts and panting hot breaths against his neck. Dean jerks himself through it, caught in a kiss when he finally comes, striping his stomach and hand in thick white spurts until he’s left shivering in the aftermath with Castiel’s cock still buried in his ass.

“You should cam with me,” he blurts; Castiel stares at him, wide eyed. Where did _that_ come from? “…I mean, not any time soon, but y’know, for—research, yeah.” _Bullshit, Winchester._

He expects Castiel to say no—instead, he gets a hurried nod and another kiss, his friend smiling against his lips. “I’d love to show them how you’re _mine_.”

He really _is_ fucked.

-+-+-+-+-+-

“They’re waiting for you to look at them,” Castiel growls into his ear, hands gripping his hips firm, fingers leaving red lines in their wake when he strokes down Dean’s chest, pinching a nipple until he gasps. How is he supposed to look at the camera when he’s busy staying _upright_ , though? The only thing keeping him on his knees is Castiel; otherwise, he’d be clutching the sheets for dear life, whimpering while his boyfriend plows into him, like he’s done so many other times.

That was off camera—this is now. They’re in a private group chat and their viewers are paying to see Dean come for the first time tonight. Throwing Castiel into the scene hadn’t hurt either, especially when someone tipped him _big_ just to see his friend’s cock, and even more to see Dean get fucked. Castiel kisses along his jaw every few seconds, urging Dean to look at the camera, urging him to see himself. He knows what he looks like by now, only because Castiel forced him to watch himself in the mirror a week ago—he knows what the audience is seeing too. The way his cock flushes bright red with the added attention, the way he leaks when Castiel pulls out to finger his prostate.

The way he _moans_ when Castiel fucks in just right, reverberating in its intensity. He’s going to make _bank_ after tonight, he already knows. “ _Fuck_ , go harder,” Dean pleads, and Castiel obliges him with a harder thrust, nearly knocking the wind out of him. This is it—this is how he dies, on camera with Castiel fucking him to incoherency with his only witnesses being a group of people probably jerking off in their bedrooms.

What a way to go.

“You should come,” Castiel tells him, breathless. With that, Dean takes himself in hand and _does_ , whining when his cum fills his fist and a drop catches the edge of his laptop, Castiel smirking into his skin all the while. Castiel pulls out and flips him onto his back after that, moving to straddle Dean’s hips and jerking himself off quick and effortlessly, soundless when he comes. Somewhere on the other side of the internet, someone _has_ to be clapping.

Dean sits up to kiss him in the aftermath, laughing into Castiel’s mouth. “You’re fuckin’ crazy,” he whispers; Castiel agrees with another kiss and a cum-soaked finger to his mouth.

“You love me,” Castiel says, and for the first time, Dean agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god. I've been working on this for _months_ and I scrapped the original draft (which had decidedly a LOT more sex.) I started another version of it a few days ago and after being pushed ENDLESSLY by a certain SOMEONE _coughcatcough_ , I finally finished it. So, hopefully this is somewhat legible. I seriously need to stop writing in present tense.
> 
> So, while I'm saying that, I have two longer fics coming out soon (my entry for the summer DSB challenge and my DCBB at some point,) and unless I get the urge to write something else, I'll probably be on a brief hiatus. Though, don't count me on that. I need to work some on my novels because I've been putting it off for a while, and once I finish my revision of the first (of four, sob) I'll hopefully come back to fic writing a bit more. But I'll be here, no worries!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(art for) Boys On Film](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4482125) by [featherfluff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherfluff/pseuds/featherfluff)




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